Decaffeination
by Alicia K
Summary: Final story in the "Black Coffee in Bed" series


Title: "Decaffeination"  
Author: Alicia K.  
Email: spartcus1@msn.com  
Rating: PG-13  
Category: Remnants of Scully/Other, M/S something, Angst  
Summary: The return of Mike, the Mysterious Other.  
Spoilers: Only for other stories in the series.  
Archive: Spookys fine, anywhere else please ask.  
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to 1013 and Fox. No   
infringement is intended.  
  
Author's Note: This is the final installment in the "Black   
Coffee In Bed" series, in which we hear again from our   
original narrator, Mike. This won't make too much sense if   
you haven't read the previous three stories, which can be   
found at http://members.dencity.com/aliciak/fanfic.html  
  
Thanks, as always, to my tan-fastic beta team: Joanna, Mish,   
and hap. Extra bundles of thanks to Mish, for the title.  
  
  
XXX  
  
Chicago was much hotter than I expected it to be. The   
summers in D.C. had been frequently unbearable, and I   
thought I was getting away from that, what with Chicago   
being further north and all.  
  
I wondered if it was just a bad heat wave. I turned on the   
local news every night, expecting to hear the anchors going   
on and on about this record-breaking heat wave, but all they   
ever said was, "Another hot one today." Guess it was just   
my dumb luck that I moved to a city that left my cotton tee   
shirts plastered to my skin with sweat for three months   
straight.  
  
Just like it had been my luck to fall for a woman who only   
wanted a one-night stand. It figured - the first time a woman   
blatantly used me, and I loved it.  
  
I thought about Dana for a long time after that night. I   
hoped that I could leave her behind when I moved to   
Chicago, but no, she invited herself along.  
  
When I walked to work in the morning, I saw her on the   
other side of the street, nose buried in the Tribune. When I   
went shopping at the market down the street, there she was,   
rounding the corner into the cereal and cookies aisle. When   
I lay in bed at night, I saw her standing by the open window,   
wrapped in my sheet and smoking my cigarettes.  
  
So yeah, I guess you could say I was infatuated. And then   
when I actually did see her one Sunday afternoon in early   
August, you could say I was surprised.  
  
I did about three double-takes before I convinced myself that   
I was really seeing her. She was real and whole and there,   
standing not thirty feet from me, apparently arguing with a   
tall, dark-haired man.  
  
She looked different: her red hair was shorter, and instead of   
the jeans I had seen her in over and over again, she wore a   
sky blue suit that I prayed for her sake was linen. She was   
beautiful.  
  
I was glad she looked different; had she looked the same, I   
might have run after her, just as I had done that night in D.C.  
  
But she was different, and that served as a gentle reminder   
that she was never mine, and that I had finally stopped   
seeing her everywhere I went, five months after being with   
her.  
  
Ironic then, isn't it, that I would see her now. My heart   
pitter-pattering in my chest, I twirled my pen between my   
fingers and watched her talk with her companion, wishing I   
were close enough to hear her voice.  
  
What would she do if I walked up to her and said, "Dana,   
hi?" Would she pretend not to know me? Would her skin   
flush the same color as it had when she came in my arms?  
  
I remembered suddenly the wedding band she had so   
carelessly tossed onto the bar before leaving with me. Was   
this man the owner of that ring? Was he the one she had set   
out to hurt?  
  
He looked hot and uncomfortable. I wondered why he didn't   
take off his suit jacket; he must have been sweltering. He   
towered over her physically but looked at her with respect as   
she gestured subtly with her small hands. He even flashed   
her a charming grin as she spoke.  
  
As I watched, two police officers and a man in a brown suit   
approached them. Dana and the tall man reached into their   
jackets and took out what looked like some sort of ID   
badges.  
  
They were cops, I thought, nearly dropping the pen into my   
glass in surprise. But no - why would D.C. cops be here in   
Chicago? My mouth actually dropped open; they were FBI.  
  
Jesus. I had slept with an FBI agent.  
  
A waiter approached to see if I needed anything else, but I   
impatiently waved him away; he was blocking my view of   
Dana. He gave a huff of annoyance and went back inside the   
air-conditioned caf‚. He probably thought I was crazy, the   
only person eating outside on this humid, 90-degree day. I   
put up with it only because outside was the only place I   
could smoke.  
  
Dana's companion - partner? - was tugging awkwardly at   
his tie and collar, and she gave him a sympathetic glance.   
She gestured towards the caf‚, and he nodded gratefully.  
  
I had a moment of serious panic when she walked toward   
me, but she didn't even look my way as she went inside.  
  
One half of my brain screamed in disapproval, but the other   
half sent the electrical messages that told my legs to move   
anyway. Neurological impulses were something that I really   
couldn't ignore, so I got up.  
  
The air conditioning was a bitter yet welcome shock to my   
sticky skin. She was in line at the counter, and I stepped   
behind her.  
  
"Dana," I said, and thanked God that I was able to get the   
word out of my suddenly dry throat.  
  
She turned, looked at me, and hesitated a moment, as if she   
wasn't sure how she knew me. Her hesitation hurt.  
  
"Hi," she said after a few startled stammers. Her wide eyes   
looked up at me with genuine panic. "What are you doing   
here?"  
  
My tentative smile faded. She obviously didn't remember   
me the same way, or as often. "I live here." I refrained from   
adding "remember?" She had the grace to look embarrassed;   
yes, she remembered. "So," I continued. "How are you?"  
  
"I'm . . . fine. I'm good. How are you?" she asked, but it   
seemed to me like she really didn't want to know. The line   
moved, and she stepped up to the counter. "Two medium   
iced teas, please. To go."  
  
I shifted impatiently while she paid for the drinks, then   
started to follow her back outside. "What brings you to   
Chicago?"  
  
She stopped, setting the plastic cups and straws down on an   
empty table. She looked like she wanted to run away as fast   
as she could. It wasn't the first time I had seen that   
expression on her face.  
  
"Mike, this is very awkward."  
  
I was just glad she remembered my name. "Yeah, I know."   
I shoved my hands into the pockets of my baggy khaki cut-  
offs. "I just thought . . . millions of people in Chicago, and I   
run into you."  
  
She gave the barest hint of a smile, and I knew she'd had the   
exact same thoughts. I was sure the element of pleased   
surprise was missing from hers.  
  
I wanted to say more, but suddenly found myself at a loss.   
What could I tell her? I watched you with him at the   
hospital? I thought about you for months? I thought I was   
in love with you? None of those seemed appropriate.  
  
Dana's mouth opened and closed once, as if she wanted to   
say something, but she finally just turned and gathered her   
drinks.   
  
I followed her outside, immediately starting to sweat again   
in the heavy heat. Ahead of us, still talking to the cops, was   
her partner/companion/whatever he was to her.  
  
I jerked my chin toward him. "It was him, wasn't it?" She   
had the gall to be puzzled. "The ring belonged to him."  
  
A bright flush covered her white skin, and she looked down.   
"Oh," she said in a low voice. "Mike, it isn't what you're   
thinking."  
  
"And what am I thinking?"  
  
She met my gaze again, her strength rebuilt. She even had a   
hint of a smile on her lips. "I'm not married to him. We   
weren't, and we aren't."  
  
"But you might as well be, right?" I was being mean, but   
she didn't look hurt by my words. Why should she be hurt?   
All I had been was a one-night stand to her. She hadn't   
worn her heart on her sleeve the whole night, she hadn't   
been the one to run after me.  
  
She studied me for another moment. "I don't know what   
you want me to say. You asked me to go home with you,   
and I did. You asked if you could see me again, and I said   
no."  
  
She was very blunt, which made it very easy for me to stop   
thinking of her as my vanished goddess.  
  
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice gentle now. I wondered if   
she was going to give me any further explanation, but none   
was forthcoming. She didn't spill her guts about why she   
had shown up at a bar with his wedding ring. She didn't tell   
me why she had gone home with me, or why she had been so   
eager to flee to his side when she had obviously meant to   
hurt him.  
  
She left me then and walked back to him. He gave her a   
grateful smile, which she returned with one of her own - a   
smile so genuine and beautiful that I felt it back where I   
remained.  
  
I couldn't watch anymore. I turned to grab my notebook,   
pen, and cigarettes from the table, and walked away. I didn't   
look back.  
  
END  
  
Thanks for sticking with me through this angst-o-rama.  
  
Feedback lovingly embraced and waltzed around the room   
with at: spartcus1@msn.com  
  
"Me fail English? That's unpossible!"  
--Ralph Wiggum  
  
  
  



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